


dial in

by darkavenue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dialogue-Only, Gen, Missing Scene, this entire fic is a phone call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenue/pseuds/darkavenue
Summary: There is a long history of witches finding ways to contact demons for aid. Anathema gets a demon’s number from a certain angel.“Aziraphale sounded on the verge of crying when he begged me not to destroy the book of new prophecies.”“You’re gonna destroy it?”“I really want to.”“Alright. Well. That’s chaotic. Thumbs up from me. Love it.But... Didn’t you want your grand purpose back?”





	dial in

The phone rings. It rings a second time, a third, a fourth, and then it clicks to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”

“It’s Anathema. I need to talk about something. I tried telling Aziraphale, but he just wasn’t having it and—Not really listening to me, I think—”

Another click on the line. “Not having what?”

“Oh, you’re here. Crowley. Hi.”

“Yeah, what’s up? It’s nearly four in the morning, you know.”  
  
“Aziraphale was up.”

“Of course _we’re_ up. What’s _your_ deal?”

“It’s not like I have to go to work in the morning. I’m just—The last prophecy was fulfilled. The book is over and done. The one thing I was born to do, my single purpose in life, is done. I don’t even know how to live my life without taking orders from the great beyond, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Does it scare you?”

“What? Well, I’m _from_ the great beyond, so it’s not as scary to me as it is to—”

“No. The independence. Isn’t it scary to not have a purpose anymore?”

“Uhhh…”

“I felt abandoned. By Agnes.”

“But this is what all people do, isn’t it? They find their own lame, small-scale purpose.”

“I guess? I don’t know? How do I go from being destined to save the world to… deciding that my new purpose in life is, what, writing a book? Getting a job? Having a baby?”

“It’s not like we’re any better than the normal people just ‘cause we had a cosmic purpose handed to us. I mean, we didn’t even choose it ourselves, so who’s the real sucker here?”

“I definitely feel suckered. I thought the prophecies had no structure, and that frustrated me, but now that they're over I have _nothing_ planned at all and nothing to look for. I'm just…”

“Lost.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah...”

“What are you going to do with yourself now?”

“Not a fucking clue, brujita. I’ve never had to think about it, either.”

“You’re lucky, though.”

“How so?”

“You don’t have a ticking clock. You can take as long to figure yourself out as you need. _I’m_ already a quarter through my time on earth. So, help me.”

“You said _Aziraphale_ wasn’t listening to you? Seems like something more in his wheelhouse. He’s all about the good choices. What d’you need a devil on your shoulder for?”

“He was patient and reassuring… but it got to a point where he lost it a little bit and I could tell he’d forgotten the real issue. Precisely at the point where I told him Agnes wrote a sequel.”

“Agnes Nutter? She wrote… a second book of prophecies?”

“Yes. She arranged for it to come into my hands directly after the end of times.”

“Oh, of course he lost his mind.”

“He sounded on the verge of crying when he begged me not to destroy it.”

“You’re gonna _destroy it?”_

“I really want to.”

“Alright. Well. That’s chaotic. Thumbs up from me. Love it. _But..._ Didn’t you want your grand purpose back?”

“I don't know. Just because I’m lost without it doesn’t mean it made me happy. It made me feel useful, that’s all.”

“There’s plenty of other ways to be useful in the world. I don’t even think you _have_ to be useful. I think I’ll have a lot of fun existing with no meaningful contribution to the world whatsoever.”

A chuckle from her end of the line.

“You don’t _need_ to train yourself into a perfectly functioning cog in the megalithic, slow-moving machinations of Agnes Nutter’s plan just because you _can_. No one does. It’s all going to happen, anyway.”

“What if there is another end of times? I mean… the new book does have an end. I haven’t looked at it, but—”

“Of _course_ there will be another attempted apocalypse. These things happen.”

“What if Agnes knows what to do? What if the answers are in this book and I didn’t prepare—”

“You did prepare and you had your shining moment and you nailed it. And then what? And then you called a demon in the middle of the night because you’re empty. It’s a little sad, really.”

“Excuse me? At least I didn’t prepare and have my moment and then completely fuck it up—”

“Wha—Wow. _Wow_ —”

“—and not only lose the antichrist, but fail to even _notice_ he was lost until the last minute—”

"—This again? Who cares—”

“Aren’t you a little sad, staying up by yourself and answering calls from strangers at odd hours of the night?”

“I don’t _need_ to sleep.”

“Yeah, and? You could be at a bar. You could be at a diner. You could be petting a bodega cat. You could be at a bookshop.”

“At this time of night?”

“Aziraphale’s up and you know it.”

“Seriously, when did this become about me?”

“When you started projecting your sad junk on me.”

“That’s mean.”

“ _You_ were mean.”

“I think I like you.”

“You hit me with your car.”

“Didn’t say you have to like me back.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks.”

“For hitting you and then being mean on the phone?”

“No. For being more helpful than Aziraphale. He just sort of started pleading for me not to damage the book and I’m pretty sure he forgot _why_ I want to do that.”

“You should do that.”

“I think I will.”

“Cool.”

“I saw a prophecy about him when I flipped through. You’re in it, too.”

“In the sequel?”

“Yeah. Want to know what it says?”

“I guess so.”

“I didn’t memorize it, but the gist was that an angel and a demon find domestic bliss in a rural cottage. I mean, who else could it be?”

A long silence.

“Hello? Crowley?”

“I hate the _suburbs_. Forget the _country_. This is ridiculous.”

“Well, she’s not holding a gun to your head and making you do it. That’s just what Agnes wrote. Soon, it won’t even be on paper. No one will ever know.”

“Great,” he mumbles, distracted.

“I’m going to get some sleep now. Ciao.”

“ _Ciao._ ”

Click.

Five years later, Anathema’s phone rings.

“Hello?”

“It’s Crowley.”

“Oh. Lucky you. I don’t normally answer numbers I don’t recognize.”

“Yeah, new line, new number. Sorry if you tried to call the old one sometime.”

“I didn’t.”

“Great. Did you burn the book?”

“Yeah, years ago. Is something wrong?”

“No. It’s fine. You still with Dick Turpin?”

“Okay, Dick Turpin is the car’s name. Newt Pulsifer is my partner’s name.”

“Yeah, I was wondering if you’re still stuck with that sad little thing.”

“Crowley, I’m going to hang up if you’re referring to Newt there.”

“I meant the car.”

“Are you just saying that so I won’t hang up?”

“I’m trying to catch up with you! It’s what normal people do. Are you normal now?”

“I’m a writer-researcher for the New Aquarian, so probably not.”

“I don’t know what that is. You should tell Aziraphale.” Someone mumbles, too far from the phone to be intelligible and Crowley adds, “That she’s a writer now. Bet you love that.”

“Give me that, I want to speak to her,” Aziraphale’s voice comes closer to the phone.

The sound of hands squabbling. Quick breaths shortly followed by a door slam and a muffled “Hey!” from Crowley.

“Um, hello?”

“Anathema, it’s so nice to hear from you again.”

“Uh, thanks. Crowley called me.”

“He says you’re a _writer.”_

“And a researcher.”

Aziraphale makes an excited, fond sound that’s something between a whimper and a sigh. “You have to come visit sometime. I think Crowley likes you and I, of course, love you.”

“Oh. Thanks. I guess I’ll—I’ll let you know next time I’m in London.”

“We aren’t in London anymore,” Aziraphale says, suddenly concerned, “You should know that.”

“I—Um—” Anathema coughs. “Actually—Didn’t Crowley tell you about the book?”

“ _Yes._ That’s why now we live in the loveliest cottage you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh.”

“We love it here. I can’t thank you enough for keeping the book. Without the prophecy, we may never have—Well, we might be stuck in the same old rut.”

“Mhm. Yeah. Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“That wasn’t actually a prophecy.”

“But Agnes Nutter wrote it.”

“No. She didn’t. I made that up on the spot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I haven’t looked at the book at all, I never will.”

“It was never a prophecy… but it came true anyway? Perhaps you’ve inherited more from Agnes than her books.”

“No, Aziraphale. You live with Crowley because I assume he suggested it and you agreed. I’m happy for you, though. I’m happy with myself now, too.”

“So… you tricked us.”

“Into what, domestic bliss?”

“Yes!”

“Awesome. Sounds great.”

“It _is_ great,” Aziraphale says with passion, still mad but unsure how to express it.

“I can promise I made no effort to be convincing at all when I said it. Crowley probably believed what he wanted to believe.”

“Well…” A pause on the line. “Thank you, anyway. Perhaps we needed a shove out the door.”

“You’re welcome, I guess. I still think it was all you.”

“Not even a teeny bit of witchcraft involved, really?”

“Nada.”

“Hmm.”

“Nice hearing from you,” she says with a laugh.

Smiles don’t make a sound, but it’s somehow audible in Aziraphale’s voice. “You too, Anathema.”

“Are you going to tell Crowley?”

“I don’t think so. It would only embarrass him.”

“So, you’re going to save it for a strategic reveal in the middle of an argument.”

“Exactly.”


End file.
